Backtalk

Larry Doby Played With Dignity and Without Bitterness

By FAY VINCENT

Published: June 22, 2003

When Roberto Alomar made the awful mistake of spitting at an umpire during an argument at home plate in 1996, I asked Larry Doby, then an adviser to the American League president, if he had been consulted on the proper punishment. "No, no one asked me anything," he said. "But, you know, it's the worst thing that ever happened to me on the field. One day I slid into second, and a guy spit on me. I felt terrible. It really got to me. I never forgot it."

Larry put up with a lot, and his death shrinks to a handful the number of survivors of the Negro Leagues. A wonderfully gifted high school athlete in football, basketball and baseball, Larry followed the Yankees, Giants and Dodgers but without any dream of ever playing in the big leagues. Instead, as a 17-year-old, he signed with the local Newark Eagles and soon dazzled even the most skeptical of his fellow players. "Larry was a remarkable player," Joe Black, the Dodgers pitcher and a fellow Negro Leaguer, told me. "He played second base in those days but he could really do it all. He was fast, hit for average and was a good fielder. He only became an outfielder because when he got to Cleveland, Joe Gordon was already there."

And Joe Gordon was one of Larry's heroes. "The day I showed up in Chicago to join the Indians in 1947 — it was July 5," Larry told me. "I felt all alone. When we went out on the field to warm up, to play catch, you know the way we always did, no one asked me to play. I just stood there for minutes. It seemed like a long time. Then Joe Gordon yelled: `Hey kid, come on. Throw with me.' That was it. Joe Gordon was a class guy. He'd been a Yankee and the others looked up to him. So when he reached out to me, it really helped."

After I left baseball in 1992, I organized a few visits to various colleges with former Negro League players. I wanted this generation of kids to appreciate what Larry and Joe Black and Slick Surratt, whom I brought with me, had gone through. Once at Williams College, a student, more than a little stunned by Larry's stories of life in the segregated South, asked why Larry hadn't just barged into a restaurant and demanded to be served.

"Well, young man," Larry answered with patience and understanding, "one of two things would have happened. First, I would surely have been arrested. And second," here a telling pause, "I might have been killed."

Even Larry lost patience at one point. A heckler called him every name in the book, including the worst one. Larry lost it and started over the barrier toward the fan. His good friend, Bill McKechnie, the third-base coach, grabbed him by the seat of the pants, and said: "Don't go up there, kid. That will ruin you, not him."

Larry's role in history was recognized slowly and belatedly. Jackie Robinson, who broke the color line first but in the same year, quite naturally received most of the attention. Larry played out his career with dignity and then slid gracefully into various front-office positions in basketball and then later in baseball. Only in the 90's did baseball wake up to the obvious fact that Larry was every bit as deserving of recognition as Jackie. Then came the Hall of Fame in 1998 and the ultimate acclaim he deserved.

For me, however, the most vivid memory of Larry is his total lack of bitterness. He refused to name the players who treated him badly. He never exhibited any resentment toward the country or society that turned him away from the game he loved. His sermon was always the same.

"I was never bitter because I believed in the man upstairs," he said. "I continue to do my best. I let someone else be bitter. If I was bitter, I was only hurting me. I prefer to remember Bill Veeck and Jim Hegan and Joe Gordon, the good guys. There is no point talking about the others."

In an age when we struggle to identify true heroes, Larry Doby is one of mine. His decency, quiet courage, remarkable achievements and lasting contribution to racial progress are permanent legacies. Well done, old friend, and may you rest in peace.

Fay Vincent was the commissioner of Major League Baseball from 1989 to 1992.